


Little Boy Holding Little Girl's Hand

by Whumpdeedoo



Series: Whumpmas 2018 [11]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Asthma attack, Gen, Hurt Jake Peralta, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 06:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17523359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whumpdeedoo/pseuds/Whumpdeedoo
Summary: When Holt is at a loss, Gina saves the day, as usual.





	Little Boy Holding Little Girl's Hand

"Captain, can I just say how totes excited I am to be working this case together?"

"You've expressed this several times already, Peralta."

"I know, I can't help it. Captain and Jake, crime-fighting duo, working together 'cause they're equally badass!" Jake sang.

Holt almost sighed, but such an emotional display would be inappropriate. "Focus, Peralta. This building hasn't been cleared."

"Yeah, of course. Focusing. Right."

In truth, the building should be empty - in fact, it should have been condemned. The outside had been white, but was now a dirty gray, with wide, dark streaks. It sagged, as though aware of its own uselessness. Holt was continually disturbed by the lack of effective infrastructure maintenance in this city.

Entering the building, guns drawn, Holt was struck by how inhospitable the building was. The air was thick with dust and plaster, and despite the broken window, it felt as though there hadn't been any circulation for years. He wanted to cover his mouth, but only a buffoon would tote around a gun with one hand.

"Asbestos. Yum," Jake quipped from behind him.

He scanned the area. Floor scattered with bottles and broken glass, great chunks of plaster ripped out of graffitied walls. No squatters in sight.

He turned to Jake, who sure enough had covered his mouth, and was toting around his gun with one hand.

"Clear this floor. I'm going upstairs."

"Aye, Captain," Jake replied, and coughed, ducking back behind his sleeve.

Jake listened to the Captain's footsteps echo on the grate staircase, and started walking. He ignored the tightness in his chest, the heaviness that he'd almost forgotten.

Holt had searched the upper floor and found little of interest. He had called "Clear!" and didn't note the lack of response from below. He did notice, however, when he called down a question. He frowned at the silence that answered, and suddenly realized that Jake had been quiet for longer than he had ever been for perhaps their entire acquaintance.

"Peralta?" he called.

He drew his gun and eased down the steps. He stopped short when he saw Jake, half-collapsed against a wall, one arm bracing him, the other grabbing at his chest. He alternately wheezed desperately and broke out into dry coughing.

"Jake!" Holt holstered his gun and ran over. "What's wrong?"

Jake clutched his shoulder. "As… Asthma attack," he gasped.

"Okay, just stay calm." He was aware of a note of panic entering his own voice, but couldn't dredge up the appropriate self-reprimand. "Do you have an inhaler?"

Jake shook his head. His eyes were wide.

"Okay, that's fine, that's fine. Let's get you out of here. Can you walk?"

Jake nodded, but Holt put an arm around his waist anyway. They made slow progress, Jake leaning on him heavily. His breathing sounded like a death-rattle.

They finally made it out, Holt's own lungs relieved at the fresher air. Jake sounded a bit better, and he slid down the wall to slouch on the asphalt. Holt knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his arm.

"Now what? Should I call an ambulance?"

"Gina," Jake rasped. "Call Gina."

Holt watched Jake struggle for breath, fear shining in his eyes.

He radioed for an ambulance.

Then he called Gina.

"Sir?" she drawled.

He put her on speaker. "Gina, Jake's having an asthma attack."

"Really? He hasn't had one of those in, like, fifteen years."

"Gina, please!"

"Did you call an ambulance?"

"Yes."

"Is he sitting up?"

Holt eyed Jake's slouch. "Close enough."

"Good. Jake, sweetie, are you there?"

Jake grunted.

"God, this brings back memories. Remember asthma camp? I was the only non-asthmatic-loser there, because you couldn't last a day without me. And still can't, apparently."

Jake let out a broken exhale that sounded almost like a chuckle.

"There we go. You know how this goes: slow breaths, in and out. Just relax; we don't want you to panic and knock yourself out like that one time in seventh grade with Jenny Gildenhorn. -No, Amy, I'm not talking to Jake.- I can't believe I'm saying this, but follow Amy's advice and sit properly, just this once. -He's fine! Can you leave, you look like a depressed goose and it's bringing down my vibe.- Are you still breathing? In and out, nice and slow. It would be really funny if you died of an asthma attack. Terrified of bees all these years, but nope! It the dust that got 'em." She started singing "Another One Bites the Dust" both loudly and off-key.

Holt was rather confused by this medical advice, but it did seem to be working. As Gina monologued, Jake's breath slowed, no longer so labored. The muscles coiled so tightly under Holt's hand started to relax. The wildness receded from his expression, replaced with a small smile.

A siren sounded in the distance. Holt stood as the ambulance pulled in, reaching down to help Jake up.

"Thanks, Gina," Jake said, as they made their way to the medics.

Holt looked over at him, walking, talking, eyes soft the way they got. He clasped a hand to the back of Jake's neck. "Yes, Gina. Thank you."

"Anytime, sir."


End file.
